


Thread Bound

by Courtanie



Category: South Park
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Age Difference Between Kyle and OC, Blackmail, Cartman Doesn't Understand What a Metaphor Is, Explicit Sexual Content, Haltija Folklore, Imprisonment, Lot of 'Master' Titles in Here but Never the Fun Kind, M/M, Master & Servant, Minor Character Death, Rumpelstiltskin AU, Violence, fairy tale AU, loosely, servitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-09-18 12:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtanie/pseuds/Courtanie
Summary: When a misunderstanding spirals into being taken from a comfortable home and a kind master, Kyle finds himself at the mercy of a cruel new owner. Faced with an impossible task at the threat of death, however, a blue-eyed man hovering outside his tower window offers his salvation.But, everything comes at a price.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sommersets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sommersets/gifts).



> Told you it'd be multi-chaptered, Tsunya because I don't know how to control myself.
> 
> Hoping this will only be four or five chapters but well. I know me. Most of you probably know me. So chances are slim.
> 
> Bare bones of Rumpelstiltskin in here, but enough for it to count in my book. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The house had not changed much in the first thirteen years Kyle had lived and worked there. A few furniture rearrangements, a couple of servants coming and going, a handful of visitors that occasionally threw the homestead into utter disarray for weeks at a time. For the most part, however, it had remained a steady, hearth-warmed estate atop a hill of golden buttercups. 

Kyle had loved to sit in the fields when his chores were done, had taken advantage of the calming scenery since he'd been sold to the estate at the cusp of only ten. The lady of the house requested he sit with her amid the shrinking blossoms as afternoon dwindled into twilight, discussing poetry and waxing life's philosophical quandaries in ways that Kyle was later informed was so _rare_ for a mere servant to partake in with their masters. 

But, he'd also learned, he had been a _special_ case upon being bought from the man who had snatched him off the street as an orphan at eight with nothing but his name and a charm necklace of his mother's. 

Kyle could not remember the man's name, only an everlasting grimace and a penchant for striking him between the shoulder blades when tasks were not done up to standard. He'd been taken to auction when he struck the man's last nerve with a spiteful backtalking after throwing Kyle's prepared dinner against the wall, claiming it harbored too many expensive ingredients that Kyle had not been permitted to purchase from the market. Only the man's daughter intervening had prevented Kyle from being beaten to death, insisting that if he was _such_ an issue to the man's standards, the clear solution was to put him to sale and use the funds to buy a servant more suited to the family's needs. 

Kyle's master and his lady had an immediate liking for him, watching as he was hauled by the collar of a tunic hardly clinging together from the worn fibers of hard labor, angrily spitting and hitting back at the man who thrust him about. His master had immediately thrown out a price nearly double what the man was demanding for the "imp", as Kyle had been declared. Kyle hadn't the time to blink before being thrown at their feet, helped up by the lady with a kind pat through crimson curls tangled beyond repair and far too long for the summer heat. 

A simple passing of gold coins and a handshake later, he was being escorted down to a wagon waiting along the end of a cobblestone path. He remembered flinching at each touch against his arm to guide him forward, itching to run but terrified of this _new_ man perhaps being even more violently temperamental than the last. His new master was stockier, younger than the other. With tousled brown hair and eyes of a crystalline pond, they echoed with something that Kyle couldn't recognize for the life of him at the time. 

But as time had passed, as his hair had been cut and combed, his belly filled with stew and bread, and given a small room to call his own within the estate itself, he'd learned: It was kindness. 

No longer did Kyle _resent_ his posting as a mere servant, as a penniless orphan that was good for nothing but tending to house chores. His days of yearning for more had passed, dwindled into nothing but echoes of youth as he found himself falling so easily in-step with his master and lady and their needs. 

Other servants had come and gone from working alongside him, many of them good at their work, but none ever holding a candle to the adoration the housemasters had for Kyle. It was always a matter of curiosity for Kyle, but nothing more. He wasn't about to question being treated as more than just someone who could sweep the floors. 

And, as Kyle aged, that adoration had blossomed into making him a permanent, _vital_ part of their lives. 

The lady of the house treasured his wit, would often pull him from his chores to read the letters of her correspondents and have him craft a slew of banter that would bring her friends to giggling tears. She wanted to be envied for her own turn of phrase, but had not the vernacular to accomplish such feats. Coming from Kyle, she declared, it was close enough, and gave her a strand of joy all her own in the process. His revisions on her own flat attempts had saved her countless rounds of embarrassment, she'd figured. 

He could make a jewel from rock, could spin straw into gold, she'd said time and again. 

His master's adulation for him as he aged, however, fell onto a much different level than the mere enjoyment of his tongue. 

At least, in such an _innocent_ sense. 

Upon his twenty-first birthday, or at least what he _believed_ to be his birthday, they had brought him into their room and closed the door, a unique experience to be sure on its own. What had followed had been far _more_ surreal: The telling of a story one line at a time between them both, never allowing his wine glass to fall below three sips remaining and lowering his concern into a tipsy, warmed stupor. 

It was the tale of marriage too young, a love that existed on the very barest of levels. A deep, caring friendship that blossomed in childhood that had never evolved into more, but two sets of parents who forced their courtship and eventual betrothal. They had shown him a hidden room through a small, subtle door within their closet, leading to an entirely different bedroom, the one that his master stayed in every night apart from his wife. 

The words, Kyle couldn't remember anymore, only remembering a lot of wine and a look of fear among them both, but an essence of the deepest trust of his secrecy. An offer had been put before him, a solemn vow that should he turn away, he would be given the money to find himself a small hovel of his own, make something of himself should he choose to, so long as he stayed silent. 

Kyle instead found himself denying such a proposal and being led into his master's bedroom, the lady smiling at him encouragingly before excusing herself to sit among the buttercups. 

Perhaps so many years of being so doted upon had spoiled him, his chores had lessened so he would retain strength for the night. He had been moved into a room closer to theirs, away from the hall where the other servants' quarters were so he could swiftly pass through the lady's bed and bid her hello, getting a cheerful return before crossing the hidden threshold and falling into his master's arms. 

Then he would leave him sleeping, coming back through and going with the lady to sit outside in the dark of night and discuss her latest readings by a candlestick's glow, neither of them making mention of the smell of sex that followed him or the blooming purple marks along his neck and chest that beamed against the thrashing of amber light between them. 

Kyle's routine had become something he treasured, something he could look forward to, being given two variations of love from the people who cared so deeply for him. 

And, when it had been torn asunder nearly two years ago, it had decimated him. 

A sudden chill the lady found herself in could not be shed, no matter how many treatments they tried. She dwindled for nearly five months before, with both the master and Kyle at her side, she had given him a kiss on the forehead and pet through his curls before giving his master a brief, but poignant peck on the lips, only then allowing herself to fall still. 

It had destroyed them both, unable to comprehend the loss of such companionship. Kyle found himself aimlessly wandering into the fields at odd hours of both night and day, clutching her favorite collection of tales and poems and talking to trees and blades of grass, wishing they would laugh as she did. 

His master, however, was far worse. His appetite spiraled into nothingness, only eating what Kyle would feed him. He refused to pass through her room to his own, waiting until the other servants had gone to bed before Kyle would lead him to his own room and they would crowd themselves onto his single-sized mattress curled against one another in silence. His pleas for Kyle's physical attention hit heightened peaks, needing _something_ to fill the void that she had left, and Kyle obliged him at every request. 

It still wasn't a true husband's love, his master had assured him one night nearly a year later as he stroked through his hair. This wasn't the cry of a widower lost without his wife, it was the desperate sobs of a man who had lost his best friend. 

Perhaps they were the same, Kyle had suggested. He'd heard from other servants who had been lucky enough to take their own vows with those of their choosing that their spouse was more often than not their dearest friend. 

His master had shaken his head, granting him a light kiss on his lips. Losing her was like losing a limb, without a doubt. But, he'd told Kyle, losing _him_ would be far more akin to the depression of a widower, the loss of his soul. He'd told Kyle not to respond to that, to just let it be out in the air and to fall asleep with him. 

Kyle had been more than grateful for that reprieve, unable to put together a comprehensive reply to such a bold, _daunting_ statement. 

He had hoped that "losing a limb" meant that his master would find himself slowly adapting, learning to work his way through his impairment and continue his merchanting work. Kyle's hopes, however, seemed to be a bit too high. 

The man had lost all passion for his business, and money was seeping out of his pockets and fast. The house could remain as it had been fully purchased nearly a decade prior, but possessions began to slowly be auctioned off to pay the taxes and the food bills. Kyle watched, brokenheartedly, as kitchenware and furniture began waltzing out the door with new owners. 

But then, it turned worse. 

A brutal winter had sent an ice-laden tree crashing through the east-wing roof, and the cost to repair the damage had been monumental to what was now their frugal lifestyle. His master had despised himself, had _hated_ that he'd come to what he had, but the choices came down to one: He had to sell off servants. 

Not Kyle, the man had said stubbornly. _Never_ Kyle. But, the others slowly began being picked off by bidding noblemen, Kyle watching miserably as his friends solemnly looked back behind them as they walked off with their new masters, all of them wishing so desperately to run back into the safety of the home they'd all grown to love. Their last statements to his master were always the same: If they could afford to work for no pay, they _would_ if it meant they got to stay. 

But, Kyle was no fool. He was the only one among them who could manage such a feat. The others had families to send coins back home to, some of them raised their children within these very walls and they were growing fast, needing new clothes and enough food to _keep_ them growing. 

Their words sent aching pains down his master's heart, always looking to Kyle for the comfort only he could provide. Kyle did so, only with the promise that he would comfort him in return, as they were both losing members of their family, and it seemed inevitable it would soon be only the two of them remaining with no one else in the world to look to. 

It didn't stop many a bidder from trying to take that small comfort of solidarity away from them, however. 

Kyle often was around, if not _in_ the room as prices were discussed, and more than once he'd been pointed out specifically as another product for sale. Most had dropped the subject immediately upon his master's first dismissal, but many only grew more determined. 

One man had wanted Kyle to come and serve his family as their personal chef after tasting the soup he had prepared for them, adamant until Kyle finally just wrote him out a handful of recipes to pass onto whoever he eventually purchased. 

Another had wished to buy him and dress him in noble clothing to have him marry his daughter, as she'd taken quite the fancy to him upon their one crossing in the hall of the estate. Kyle had had to remove himself from the room so they couldn't hear him laughing so loudly in both humor and disbelief that his life had come to such a place. 

One that curled Kyle's stomach uneasily, a man of dark black hair and piercing gray eyes, had made the comment of keeping Kyle around to whore out to his friends for profit. Never before had Kyle heard his master give such a sharp and loud _"Absolutely NOT!"_ in his life, and he couldn't deny the flattery that burned through his cheeks. 

But then, there was this last nobleman that questioned his purchase sitting oh-so-comfortably in the dining room. A rotund man with mud-brown hair and eyes to match. A smarmy grin never seemed to leave his plump face, an air of superiority that brought an angered chill down Kyle's spine. He'd poured tea for the man, wanting so _desperately_ to pour it straight his lap before catching the knowing eyes of his master and the silent plea for him to keep his venomous tongue to himself. Kyle had followed his directive, albeit not without a few twitches of his right eye, before backing up and heading to the adjacent kitchen to give them the space to speak. 

Eric Cartman was his name, and his specialty seemed to lay only in manipulation to get the funds needed to supply his lavish lifestyle. A merchant on the side from what Kyle could tell, or at least, that's how he'd started. But now, it was fairly unclear as the man dodged the questions of his master. 

" _A criminal then,_ " Kyle thought coldly, blindly going about to secure vegetables to prepare dinner. Cartman had come in with the intention of buying only one of his master's servants: Poor, foolish Leopold. 

Leo, or Butters as the lady of the house had named him so cheekily after he'd dropped the same broom four times within an hour, was a naïve man in most regards, but the best stableman Kyle had certainly ever seen. It was no surprise that he was racking up quite the price for himself with the easy-spreading tales of how he nursed so many of their master's horses from mere riding stock into champion racers. Kyle himself hadn't the slightest clue of how horses worked, but Butters seemed to have a charm that resonated with the stallions and the mares, but particularly the foals. He'd been the one to teach Kyle how to properly feed them from his hand without getting nipped, let him watch as he changed their shoes and let him help brush their manes. 

Kyle was upset that it was very likely he would be gone soon enough, considered him to be his last close friend left within the house. But, he supposed, with the horses gone and sold for months now, Butters really didn't have much purpose hanging around with his ineptitude at completing the house chores. It made good business sense, but it still hurt to see their home getting smaller by the day. 

" _What about that one?"_ he heard that pompous voice coming from the table as he sliced his way through a darkening onion. 

" _Which one?_ " his master asked. 

A scoff, a hard slap of a fat palm on the maple table. _"The red-haired one. The only one I've_ seen _,"_ he emphasized. 

Kyle rolled his eyes, a small smile creeping up his lips at the automatic response: _"Kyle's not for sale_." 

" _And why not?"_

" _Because he's just not. He's been here for fifteen years, he's not going anywhere._ " 

Kyle nodded firmly, gathering the large chunks of onion in his hands and walking them towards a bubbling cauldron of lamb stew simmering over the kitchen fire. _'Damn straight I'm not_ ,' he reaffirmed to himself. He threw the massacred bulb into the stew, watching tiredly as the pieces were enveloped in thick broth and brought below the surface. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, just wishing that the fat man would _leave_ and his master wouldn't grant him the hospitality he was so insistent upon bestowing all guests who crossed the threshold. He turned, knowing that dwelling on his presence wouldn't do him a damn bit of good and didn't get the chores done any faster, and headed out the back entrance to the kitchen to tend to the laundry hanging outside. 

From the dining room, the two men stared at one another for a beat of silence, Cartman's index finger tapping lightly against the saucer his teacup was situated upon. Eyes sharp enough to slice steel in half slid up the master's stubborn form, seeing the way his teeth gnawed on his inner lip and his nostrils flared a bit at having to address such a query. 

It intrigued him. 

"Why so determined to keep that one?" he questioned. 

The man's brow furrowed. "He's family." 

A derisive snort rumbled through Cartman's throat. " _Servants_ are not _family_." 

"Maybe not in your home, Lord Cartman," he frowned deeper. 

He smirked, taking a casual sip of the tea before him, steam billowing into his face. The rich, sweet taste of honey danced on his tongue, and the growing defensiveness of the man before him made his stomach dance all the same. He'd seen this before, this absolute resolution to keep a servant on hand. There was always a _great_ weight behind it, a talent that the master of the house refused to lose. "Rumors have spread far," he said casually, tucking brown hair behind his ear. "Word is that you are on the precipice of losing it all." Cartman gestured around the room so barren of decoration, "It seems it's true." 

The master scowled, fists clenching. "We all fall onto hard times." 

"Not me," he parried, eyes continuing to flow around their surroundings before landing straight back into his gaze. "Giving me _that_ servant along with your stablemaster will grant you a hefty sum." 

"Kyle. Is _not_. For sale," he repeated, teeth gritting. 

"Kahl," he repeated, nodding lightly. "Tell me, _family_ aside, since I _know_ you consider _all_ your servants to be family, why the interest in holding onto _Kahl_?" 

The master tensed further, a shaking breath flowing through his chest. Any hint of what he and Kyle did, of their _relationship_ as one could call it, would result in an execution. He would be jailed, then forced to watch Kyle hang before facing the gallows himself. He couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_. 

A woman's cheeky, echoing tone that brought an ache to his heart rang through his mind: _"You never could lie, you know_." 

He gulped, gripping his own teacup and bringing it to his lips. His wife had been right, he never could. So… he wouldn't. 

"He… can spin straw into gold," he said, eyes glazing over in somber fondness. 

Cartman stared at him, heart pounding at such a sudden, unexpected statement, mind twisting with questions and possibilities. "What?" 

"Rocks into jewels, straw into gold," he shrugged with a sad laugh. "It's something, brings a small comfort since the death of my wife." 

Amber eyes flickered towards the kitchen where he'd watched Kyle angrily stepping away into hiding. A dry gulp rolled down his throat. "And yet you remain so miserable?" he prodded, hiding a bubbling excitement wanting to spill from his lips. 

The master sighed heavily, fingertip tracing the rim of his mug and eyes stuck on the waltzing puffs of steam. "It can only bring so much happiness some days. He's lost much of his will to do so since she passed." 

"Make him then," Cartman scoffed, unable to comprehend someone not wanting to take advantage of something _so_ useful at every turn. 

He shook his head, "Can't do that. He'll get back there on his own in time." 

Cartman's eyes narrowed, shaking his head back at him in disappointment. What an _idiot_. He didn't _deserve_ someone with such ability if he was going to _squander it_ so casually. "I'll give you double the price of the stablemaster for him." 

The master's gaze shot back up, blinking in disbelief at such a high offer before falling back to their stony demeanor. "Lord Cartman, I told you, he is _not_ for sale. No matter the price you offer, the answer is _no_." 

His fury spiked, his closed fist slamming onto the table and the ceramic of their teacups rattling atop their saucers. "You're being a _fool_." 

"And _you're_ not listening," he retorted. "I am willing to sell you Butters and any of the others, but that's it, my lord." 

Cartman's face twisted further, nose scrunched and brows knitted together. The man across from him sat in stoic silence, daring him to just take it or leave it. Finally, he uncurled his fist, waving his hand dismissively in sharp, jerking pulses. "Fine. I'll just take your stablemaster. The few others you have seem unremarkable." 

The master frowned at his bluntness, chest tightening in anger and offense before his shoulders couldn't help but slump from exhaustion. He had to face facts: He wasn't going to get a better price for Butters than what Cartman was offering. Denying him would be foolish and put the few he had left at risk of ending up on the streets. As much as he _hated_ to grant this boisterous man anything of his, he had to do what was best. Besides, he reasoned wearily, at least Butters would be in the stables and not around him often, and he would have a much better home to stay in. This was _good_ for Butters, and good for their family, much as it pained them all. 

"All right. I'll inform him," the master said, pushing away from the table and getting to his feet. "Please excuse me, I'll bring him to meet with you," he half-muttered, turning on his heel and walking off to pass through the kitchen. 

Cartman hummed, cracking his neck before getting to his own feet. Hands clasping behind his back, he moseyed towards the alcove, catching a shock of red hair beside the opposite doorway. He hummed, swiveling to the side and peeking around the corner to see Kyle and his master softly conversing. 

"So, he's gonna be gone?" Kyle asked quietly. 

His master frowned sadly, putting his hands on Kyle's cheeks. "I know this is hard," he said, tone soothing as he tilted his face up. "But he'll be going to a much nicer home and be taken care of. We should be happy for him." 

Kyle's lips quirked down into a scowl, "I don't like that man, Sir." 

He snorted, patting his right cheek lightly. "You and the rest of the county. Tend to your chores, I have to tell Butters. You can help him pack and say goodbye once he meets with Lord Cartman, all right?" 

Kyle nodded in silence, watching with heavy eyes as he moved to walk out the back door. He sighed, readjusting the bundle of sheets in his arms and taking a quick glance at his simmering stew. His heart wrenched, dreading how they were counting down the days until it was merely himself and his master, now about to lack the compassionate ear of Butters who let him lament away in ways he would never express to the widower. He didn't need to bring more heartache to the man than he was dealing with already. 

Kyle supposed he would just have to learn to repress his own woes, or at least rant a little longer to the buttercups each night. 

A shift of movement caught his eye and he turned, looking to see Cartman standing under the archway. He fought down a grimace. "Did you need something, my lord?" he asked, clenching his fist in the blanket to fend off a sarcastic drawl. 

A snide grin crossed up his pudgy face. "Your _master_ is quite taken with you," he cooed, watching Kyle's eyes narrow I the slightest. "Offered him double what I'm paying for the stablehand for you. And yet, he turned me down," his brow cocked. 

Kyle swallowed, his chest aflutter with gratefulness but the man's tone worrying something deep within him. 

"Tell me," he continued. "Is he foolish for not taking me up on my offer? Or are you _really_ worth so much?" 

He gave an impassive roll of his shoulder. "I suppose that's his determination to make, not my own. Egotism isn't highly regarded for those in my circle." 

"Don't like to flaunt your… _special_ _abilities_ , huh?" he smirked, eyes glittering with opportunity. 

He eyed him cautiously, moving to toe over a wicker basket tucked in the corner beside the china display. That tone spoke of _something_ , but Kyle couldn't place it for the life of him. A niggling paranoia sprang in his chest. Did he _know_ of himself and his master? Was he taunting him with the threat of informing the authorities? Was he trying to _blackmail him_ into working for him so his and his master's necks would be spared? "I'm… I-I'm not sure I catch your meaning, Sir," he stammered, forcing an innocent smile to spread over his lips. 

Cartman observed the subtle twitch of his mouth, the gulps rapidly falling down his throat, the way he'd yet to relinquish the cloth in his hands to tumble into the basket waiting at his feet. His smile morphed, a blank ferocity behind it that brought a cold chill rolling down Kyle's spine. "Uh huh," he said with a small huff. "Of course you don't. I'd suggest you return to your chores, _Kahl_ ," he drawled, grinning at the scowl that hit the servant's face. He turned on his heel, feeling spring green eyes following his every step as he made his way back to his seat and plopped down atop the wooden chair. He cupped the warmed mug in his hands, grinning sinisterly as the barest essence of his reflection danced in the pool of amber, hearing the subtle sounds of Kyle finally finding the bearings to move and complete his tasks again. 

Well, Cartman supposed, he needed to have a talk with a certain stablemaster. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah if you were here last chapter all excited for the Style that was originally promised, it has changed to K2 by the requester's uh. Request. 
> 
> Hope those of you who were here for the former will still stick around with this change but if not hey I get it. We're gonna have fun with the oranges though, I promise!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The heavy scent of olive oil filled the room, each pant filled their sinuses with a new flood of the comforting aroma. Kyle was shaking, beyond exerted and having to fight for each of those blissful gasps of air. The slick skin inside of him was a welcome and familiar, but _filling_ addition. His thighs rolled in constant tremors as he lifted and lowered himself, his knees burnt from linen fibers. 

A large, warm hand slid up from his hip against his chest, feeling the rapid pace of his heart and watching that sweat-laced, flushed face beaming against the candlelight. Fingertips brushed the chain of the simple pendent hanging from his neck, the one that he never removed. Kyle often wondered if he should, given his mother would most likely be the opposite of pleased if she knew her necklace was anywhere near such _debauchery_. But still, it remained, Kyle far too paranoid that it would be brushed off the stand and become entangled and ruined in the rotting floorboards. 

A long cry broke through the air as the cock inside of him slammed against his prostate, his fingers curling desperately around his master's shoulders beneath him. Those hands slid from his chest to his hips, clutching in a greedy fit and helping lift and lower him quicker, his own hips lightly bucking to meet his rhythm. 

Kyle could see nothing but flashes of light, feel nothing but how the air itself seemed to be bearing down on him as he moved. He felt far too warm, his legs burning incessantly in furious protest at nearly ten minutes of this nonstop propulsion. A bead of sweat slid its way between tendrils of fire plastered against his forehead, slipping its way down to ride the curvature of his nose before curling into a tight droplet upon the tip and falling off to the bare chest he was staring at. 

_Never make eye contact_ , the mantra that Kyle had long ago trained himself to uphold since after their first time together. He still needed _some_ degree of separation for his master, and he feared that locking stares with him would result in unintended feelings and an inability to separate his _boss_ from the man who undressed him every night. He gulped, fingernails scraping down the skin of his master's shoulder as he felt the encouraging squeeze of palms around his slender hips. He wasn't sure if that would be easier or far more dangerous. 

Certainly, it would be better for his master and his feelings towards Kyle, but Kyle couldn't claim the same sort of reassurance. He'd long resigned himself to be a mere form of comfort, providing a service as he always had for the man beneath him, just on a riskier level. Adding in a mixture of _feelings_ for the man who technically _owned him_ seemed a bit too much to handle. 

Kyle whimpered, the telltale tightening of the fingers around him alerting him to all he needed to know, letting his left hand slip from the broad shoulder it held so tightly and grasp around his own slickened skin from lightly slapping against his master's pelvis. Firm, generous pumps and a stable rhythm against the sensitive nerves inside of him proved a favorable routine as it did every night. His brow furrowed, eyes closing against the candlelit glow and his head leaning back as he let out a long moan, thighs begging him to _stop_ but every aroused fiber of his being prodding him to keep moving. 

" _Kyle_ ," his master said softly, breath hitting a noticeable stagger. 

Another low moan was all he got in return, unable and unwilling to grant his master the intimacy of his name. Not once had he called him as such, even before this had started, just another layer of separation Kyle forced himself to keep on hand. 

His fingers tightened around his skin, pace picking up as the hips below him bucked more violently, demanding every ounce of cock be buried deep in his body. He relished in the feeling, tingles of heat running up his back and neck as he was used. His stomach coiled in pinpricks of impending ecstasy, chest caught between wanting to make a plethora of noises, knowing he was safer to do so than he ever had been with the house nearly empty, and wanting to silently hold his breath and speed the process of pleasure along. 

" _God_ ," his master's voice cracked, his fingers turning and his nails delving into Kyle's slim thighs, edging oh-so-close enveloped in his heat. 

A loud gasp escaped Kyle's throat at the pressure, a final tug and slam into his prostate completely unwinding him all at once. With a barely-subdued moan, he came over his master's stomach and chest, legs hardly able to keep moving as he shivered violently. Those hands came back to Kyle's hips, forcing him to keep rocking before an echoing moan came from his master, Kyle's vision spotting and perception of the world undone as the man lost himself in the heat. 

He allowed him to keep guiding him along before his hands and arms fell still and Kyle was able to fall forward, barely catching himself from colliding face-first into the sweating man beneath him on bent arms. Fingers delicately traced up his body and to his face, Kyle's eyes closed but feeling impending heat approaching him and naturally meeting his master's lips. 

"Mm, _good_ ," his master said as he pulled back before pecking him again. 

Kyle smiled, hearing the gratitude in his timbre as he slowly lifted himself off his impaling skin with a breathy moan. A light smirk took place of his satisfied grin, a joking, routine, "Anything else you need, Sir?" leaving his lips and passing through to his master's. 

He snorted, never failing to love Kyle's immediate switch from a mind-numbing temptation to his casual self as soon as the heat had dimmed even in the slightest. "No." He gave him one last kiss, allowing Kyle to lift himself up and shakily climb off from overtop him, trembling legs barely able to carry him over to the filled water basin in the corner. He watched his lithe, naked form, the way the sweat glistened so golden in the light down his spine and riding the curve of his reddened ass. He smiled, in a drunken haze of afterglow and appreciation at keeping this _one_ faithful part of his life so near and dear. "Are you going outside?" 

Kyle nodded, wringing the rag in his hands and lightly tossing it back to his master before his own slipped back between his thighs to clean himself. "Yes. Unless you would rather I not, Sir." 

He shook his head in a vague amusement. Not once had he denied him, but each night Kyle asked for permission to do so. He was an odd mix that had captivated both himself and his wife: Obedient in all the right ways, but a rebellious smart mouth when given any form of leniency in a situation that bothered him. Not that either of them ever minded, they reveled in having some routine shake-ups now and then. The master wondered if _he_ was like that at Kyle's age a bit over twenty years prior, if he'd been so quick to talk back to anyone who granted him the ability to do so. He was sure that was the case, as he had the nobility and the status to allow him such freedoms. Kyle, not so much, he had to tread much more carefully around guests and other servants. 

Here, in this room in these nights, he was free to speak as he wished, but kept himself at a reserved, submissive tone. The man could not figure if it was merely because Kyle had no need to speak brashly, or if he was simply too tired from exertion to have much in the means of wits about him. 

He sighed, finishing cleaning from his chest to his oil-coated cock and tossing the rag aside, sitting up in Kyle's bed and watching him wrapping up his own scrubbing and putting on his clothes that had been thrown aside. "Say hello for me," he requested quietly. 

Kyle's chest wrenched, waiting until he had slipped his tunic back into place before finally looking his master in the face for the first time in nearly an hour. He gave him a soft, sympathetic smile and nodded, "I will," he promised. 

Slim fingers grasped a book waiting for him on the stand beside his door as he silently slipped out into the hall of the estate, taking a long breath in the darkness and his shoulders dropping in exhaustion. A part of him had wanted to merely forego his routine and clamber into bed, wrapped up in his master's arms and settling into a long, needed slumber. But, he also needed the fresh air, needed to let the scent of sex fade off of him into the night sky. 

He headed down the corridor towards the side door he and the lady of the house used each night they trekked outside together, the typical chill riding the back of his neck, feeling her presence following him every step of the way. Kyle took a preparatory breath, pushing down the tarnished handle awaiting him and pressing forward into the muggy summer air. 

A long inhale filled his lungs with the needed scent of hiding flora as they slept in tightened blossoms. Even as they hid their faces, Kyle could see them clearly in the cast of the ghastly moonlight. He hummed, quietly shutting the door behind him and stepping lightly with bare feet through the grass and towards the simple stone bench in the middle of the yard trying to hide within the long stems surrounding it. His toes pressed down into the soil, soles tickled by the unkempt blades as he moved forward, his sweat-laced skin kissed by the iridescent glow of the greeting moon. 

He sighed, content as he found his way to the bench, taking the seat he'd taken for so many years on the right side, looking at the empty space and feeling that mourning all over again. He diverted his gaze into the sprawling field before him, seeing his lady pacing and talking about everything she could conjure in the late night hours. 

"He says hello," he said to the empty space, sighing longingly. Perhaps this was too cruel to himself. Two years of this routine hadn't seemed to be an effective means of mourning as he thought it might be, it only made him yearn for the days before, where the estate was alive with constant chatter and guests. There was color in every room, and so much décor one could barely walk through a setting without stubbing their toe on a displaying shelf. 

"I don't know what will happen now," he continued, stroking over the book in his hands. "Since Butters left a few weeks ago… there's only four of us still here. And soon it'll be only myself and the master," he said. "I… I don't know if I can keep the house by myself," he admitted. "There is so much to be done, and he still wants my attention each night. But I am… _tired_ ," he confessed. "I'm trying. _Very_ hard. But I'm one man, I can only do so much. If I am to do the cooking and the cleaning and the payments and the market trips and accompanying him to events and the tailoring…" his shoulders sank. "I may not have the _energy_ to be with him each night…" He paused, sinking. 

"I wish he would come back into himself," he murmured, feeling guilty for talking ill of the man probably nestling down into his quilt in comfortable satisfaction. "It _has_ been two years. He misses you. We all do. But… life moves on, you said so yourself before you left." 

The response of crickets alone filled the air and he heaved another sad sigh, focusing on a sprawling patch of sleeping buttercups. 

"I wish I could help him more. I wish he could help _me_. I think… I think he thinks it helps us both. And… it _does_ make me forget for a moment," he conceded. "But when it's over it's… right back where it was. I remember everyone who's gone. And everything we've lost. And it's unfair. I need to find a way to get him working again, give him _purpose_ again, but it's not my place to tell him such things. You and he may have liked me speaking my mind, but I feel this is a line I am not permitted to cross. I cannot tell him how to miss you, and he _is_ still my master, no matter what we do. Right?" he winced, looking back out into the field. "Or would you _tell me_ to tell him to pull himself together? I just don't know. I'm in such a… strange place to him. I'm sure he would listen at least, even if he didn't _follow_ my advice. There would be no offense I'm sure, and even if there _was_ I know how to distract him…" 

He groaned, raking his fingers up through his hair and staring at the worn cover of his book. His master had given it to him immediately after his wife's funeral, knowing well enough that Kyle would get more use out of it than he ever would, as he himself was never much of a reader. Besides, he reasoned, it may have been his wife's favorite possession, but she used it during the time she spent with Kyle, not himself, so he should have it. 

Kyle gulped, flipping open to a random, off-colored page. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the limited lighting, seeing the telltale format of a poem stanza and fighting back the heady misery trying yet again to rear itself. He could hear the lady reading it aloud, her voice crisp and floating between every individual piece of foliage, blessing the ground so graced as to hear her enthusiasm in each word. She soaked them in like the soil took in rainwater, blossomed into happiness and glowed like the sun. 

He wished such ethereal life could be brought back into their homestead. But, he was no fool, it wasn't going to happen. They would just have to figure it out, piece by piece. Hopefully things could turn around, hopefully they could fill the house once more, maybe even earn enough to buy back the servants that had been sold off. They could have their family again. 

Or, at least, most of it. 

A light gust of wind caught the paper of his book, flipping away from the poem to several pages later and disturbing the flowers enclosing him in his comforting cocoon. He frowned, fingers deftly moving to return to his place before the feeling of heat at his back washed over him. 

His head turned, flinching at the sight of a tunic at his eye level and his heart pounding in fright. He glanced up, expecting to find the face of his master in a surprise visit before a large, hairy arm swooped down around him, catching around his throat and ripping him back into an unfamiliar, bulky form. His book dropped to the grass, jaw falling open as pressure bore down into his neck. Kyle's hands flew up, clawing and trying to scream, barely managing to loudly gasp for air as he was torn up from his seat onto flailing legs. 

His head thrashed, body struggling forward as another two unknown assailants came from behind the man holding him. He was dragged back over the bench, the uneven stone scraping his calves through the thin fabric of his pants. His nails dug deep into the arm holding him back, chest arching as he tried desperately to pull away the restraint, barely able to grant himself any more breathing room. Short, panicked yelps were all he could manage before his arms were yanked down and away by the other two. 

Sharp eyes caught a beaming glisten against the silhouettes surrounding him, Kyle's heart lurching and a horrified cry trying to eke its way out at the telltale shape. 

"Keep 'im still," a gruff voice finally broke the air filled with nothing but terrified hiccups. A rough palm tightly gripped Kyle's wrist, pulling and forcing his arm to stretch outwards. The sharp edge of his blade touched the outside of Kyle's arm under his elbow, his entire body falling into a frenzy between his shock and bewilderment at what was happening. 

' _They know about us,'_ he thought, tears in his eyes as he thought of his master, probably asleep and unsuspecting an attack from radical moralists. 

His head flew back into his attacker's chest, a silent scream of pain rumbling through his compromised throat as the blade dug into his arm and slipped its way down to the back of his wrist. He could feel the skin split, the warmth of blood finding its way into the open air and sporadically falling off his arm in curving ribbons. 

"Down," the voice said, Kyle gasping as he was forced forward by the man behind him, legs unable to bend accordingly and slipping underneath him. His feet struggled to regain ground, vision blurring from his weight fighting against his throat. His eyes scrunched as his arm was twisted around, teeth gritting as his wound was pressed against the bench and smeared across the uneven stone. The jagged edges caught his skin, forcing the gash to open wider and coat the gray in a macabre paintjob. 

"Good enough," the man holding his other arm said hastily. "Let's go." 

Consciousness was fleeting from Kyle's grasp, vision darkening and mouth going dry. His face was burning, his temples pounding with the minimal oxygen, limply dragged back up and his feet barely able to plant him on the ground. The barest sensation of a coarse, biting material wrapped thickly around his wrists entered his acknowledgement. 

"Don't _kill 'im_!" the first man hissed, the arm around his throat immediately lessening its grip and Kyle greedily swallowing in mouthfuls of muggy, floral air. His bleary eyes caught the sight of his wrists being tied, dizziness bearing down on him but the need to escape prevalent. He screeched through gritted teeth, rearing back his bound arms and slamming them into the face of the man to his left. He stumbled, quickly recovering from Kyle's sloppy hit but glaring daggers all the same. 

Kyle barely caught the movement of a return hit incoming, only met with a blunt, vengeful force smashing itself into the corner of his left eye. The impact spun him from the larger man's grip and he fell gracelessly against the grass, taking down a number of buttercups with him. 

"We gotta go, _now_!" one of them snapped, Kyle unable to differentiate who through the pain. He whimpered, trying to will himself to get up and run into the safety of the house, only managing to get one knee on the ground before being ripped back up by his hair. His bound wrists were heavy with thick rope, entire body sagging exaggeratedly in his disorientation from their heft. 

In his haze, he saw the dark blotch against the landscape that was the estate, mouth opening and a managing a mere " **HEL-** " before the large arm returned to his throat and cut him off. Tears rolled down his cheeks, trying to dig his toes into the soil as he was dragged backwards away from the house and thrashing as his incomplete desperate plea faded off as an echo, an ode to no one but the moon and the sleeping buttercups. 

He flinched violently as one of the men beside him swooped down and grabbed his legs, securing them tightly within his arm in the crook of his waist. The three of them picked up their speed, rushing Kyle past the house and out towards the dirt path along the front yard. 

Kyle was spinning, wanting to vomit and sob and scream and just _get back inside_. He hissed as he was shifted, his chin slamming against the man's arm and his teeth clacking together loudly. No sense of logic could be found, the _suddenness_ and _randomicity_ of whatever was occurring overwhelming him amid his terror. He tried once more to shout for help, a warning squeeze around his neck halting him and his eyes scrunching tightly, lost in a sea of pain and confusion. 

"Come on, come on," one of them urged, Kyle whimpering as they came to a sudden stop, his neck released in lieu of a hand slapping over his mouth. Heavy, desperate breaths rushed through his nostrils, head shaking as he tried to thrash away and throw his tied wrists back to punch at his topmost assailant. His eyes creaked open at the sound of a door functioning on squeaking, aged hinges, heart falling further as he stared into the gaping mouth of a covered wooden wagon, a large black box against the rich blue of the night sky. 

' _A coffin_ ,' his mind immediately suggested, throwing him into a more frantic fit. The men holding him sneered, tightening their holds as the man at his head stepped backwards onto the running board and led the way to drag a flailing Kyle into the abyss. _'I have to get out, I_ _ **have to get out!**_ _'_ he thought, head ringing from the volume of his internal demands. 

A heavy hand hit the back of the cart as soon as the doors shut. "Go!" one of them demanded, Kyle hearing the start up of dirt and pebbles being crushed beneath the weight of wooden wheels. As his back touched the floor, he managed to kick his way out of the grip on his legs, furiously trying to take out the remaining men as they moved to pin him back down. 

The hand on his mouth left and he yelled in pure ferocity, immediately muffled with a wadded piece of cloth shoved in past his teeth. 

"Feisty, isn't he?" the one holding his left leg jeered, grunting at Kyle's unwavering attempts to break free. He glanced up at the man at his head and nodded sharply in the limited light seeping in through the few skinny open slats running along the top half of the cart. "Shut him up, we gotta get through town." 

Kyle screeched as he was hauled up onto the sides of his legs by his hair, captured hands aimlessly clawing towards the ground in some pathetic attempt for stance. The fingers tangled in his curls shifted, grabbing the right side of his head and twisting him to stare straight to the back of the wagon and the two men watching impatiently. 

Green eyes flickered down as he was shoved violently to his left side, barely catching the moonlit-lined edge of the built-in bench before the side of his head collided with it. It was instantaneous, the immense pain and the immediately following slump of shock and unconsciousness. His vision fled, his pain dulled, and his fear was erased in the cocoon of an endless void, all before he could hear the deadweight thud of his body collapsing onto the wagon floor. 


	3. Chapter 3

The last four days had not been kind.

Kyle found himself on the precipice of what he thought may as well be insanity, wrists and legs kept bound and a gag only removed to give him just enough of a drink to survive to wherever he was being taken. The summer heat filled the unforgiving wood of the wagon, Kyle's hair and clothes long since drenched with sweat, the floor of the cart swollen with the moisture where he laid. He'd been all but ignored the last two days, his voice finally gone from attempting to scream and the hits he endured for doing so. Only the occasional kick to see if he was still alive greeted him, otherwise he was left to his own devices curled up in the back of the cart.

His cut arm ached, the skin splotched and the dried blood's edges loosening with the cascade of perspiration he couldn't stop. His head throbbed incessantly, only quieted when his constant fear of his unknown, inevitable fate would finally wear him down enough, adrenaline fading off to rapid rush of exhaustion and lulling him into a restless sleep. He would wake the same each time, shivering and parched, praying he was merely stricken with a near-deadly flu and living out a fever-fueled hallucination.

The three men with him spoke little of him, of where they were going. Kyle's assumptions had been many, ranging from mere mistaken identity to a vast importer conspiracy where he was going to be held ransom for his master to have to fetch back at the cost of finally selling off the last of his merchanting assets.

But, Kyle had exhaustedly concluded in the crest of dawn on the third day that it was probably much simpler than that: A slave trade. It had to be.

He'd been told tales from other servants, how men would capture domestics from unprotected estates and put them to market. Being sold as a slave would mean lower revenue, but it would also mean no one would blink twice if you handed them off bloodied and beaten. There were no questions asked as to where you found the person you were selling by authority or otherwise.

Kyle dreaded finding himself as a slave, knowing well enough from the horror stories told by those he worked with for so many years that it would be a cruel, unforgiving life. No one bought a _slave_ with the intention of treating them well. They were cheap enough they were expendable, some made to work for nothing but gruel until they dropped dead, some kept locked in a room to be _toys_ , to see how much unprompted punishment a body could take before they finally gave out.

His imagination had not been kind to him, knowing having an attitude like his own with a slaver was _asking_ for death. He just wasn't sure if he'd prefer it compared to whatever laid before him.

Hazy green eyes blinked slowly, trying to ward droplets of sweat from his lashes as he stared at the thick, caramel rope binding his wrists so tightly and keeping his skin so pink and raw. He couldn't help but wonder if his master was all right, if _he'd_ been the one to find his blood probably still sitting vibrantly along the bench. He was sure such was the case; his master always woke earlier than the servants to get out of Kyle's room and avoid suspicion of their relationship. No doubt he noticed his missing immediately and went to search for him.

Kyle sank, unable to imagine the situation reversed, how he would fare if he found himself looking for someone so close and found nothing but blood and a treasured keepsake thrown to the ground so callously. Not well, he could assume that much.

He flinched at a sudden three bangs against the front of the wagon from a heavy fist, heart pounding and tied form fighting against its forced positioning to naturally look back towards the wall.

" _Finally,"_ one of the men groaned, running his hands down over his face.

Kyle's stomach lurched, wondering if the soaked floorboards beneath him would grant him a kindness and swallow him whole so he wouldn't have to deal with whatever lay ahead. His eyes scrunched, a muffled, pained groan escaping his scratchy throat as the wagon rolled to a stop and the doors were immediately flung open to a glaring sunlit day. It seemed cruel, Kyle thought, the world shining so brightly as his life was torn asunder.

"Come on, you," one said, bending down and slicing the ropes off Kyle's ankles. The back of his tunic was grabbed and he was dragged to the doors with his weakened legs limply trailing behind him, the direct touch of the sun making him recoil.

His bleary, deprived vision found itself locked in the stare of a large man with dirt-brown eyes and a sinister grin that flickered a light of recognition somewhere deep in Kyle's muddled mind.

"Well _done_ , Gentleman," he cooed, nodding appreciatively at Kyle leaning against the side of the opened doorway, soaked to the bone and face a varying array of purples and browns. His roped wrists hung loosely in front of him, swaying with each overheated pant and terrified tremor. "Any issues?"

"No," one of them answered, standing straight and stretching with a long yawn. "Kept him knocked out through the towns, not a lick'a trouble."

"Excellent," he purred, stepping forward and closely examining the worse-for-wear captive, waiting until defeated green eyes met his stare and grinning. "Well, welcome home, _Kahl_."

The inflection sent a spark of rage through an aching chest, Kyle's memory kicking in all at once and his brow knitting in fury.

Cartman grinned wider, seeing the recollection taking place and giving him a low chuckle. "See, now if your master had been _smart_ , your ride here would have been _much_ more pleasant." He watched, fascinated as Kyle's teeth dug deep into the thick linin in his mouth, his shoulders dramatically pulsing through an unsteady beat as his panting took on a far angrier hiss. Cartman frowned. Regardless of never minding seeing a servant upset, he recognized the look flaring through gradually-clarifying green eyes: Rebellion.

He had to snuff out that flame _quickly_.

Kyle yelped, unable to flinch back far enough from a plump hand reaching forward and snagging the crown of his drenched hair, ripping forward and sending him tumbling out of the wagon onto the dirt path. He hissed, the impact emphasized with several large rocks smashing into him, forcing his skin to conform to their shape. His freed legs attempted to get him up and moving, too full of agitated tingling from days of atrophying to do more than painfully slither on the ground. He was stopped, breath rushing from his lungs and eyes wide and teary as a pointed, thick boot slammed into his stomach and rolled him on his back.

"You will _behave_ ," Cartman barked.

' _Not in this life_ ,' Kyle thought, body jerking to try once again to run, screaming for his legs to cooperate and get him back home. Another six swift kicks to his side and back had him stifling agonized sobs, rolled over facing away from his captor and curling up in a pathetic attempt of defense.

Cartman smirked, watching the tremors of a man far past devastated as he caught up to the immensity of his situation. Good.

He glanced towards the door of his estate at lingering servants watching the newcomer with a knowing sympathy, frowning. "Stan!" he snapped, watching the foremost domestic straightening into attention and looking at him. His voice dropped to a malicious coo, "Do get him cleaned up, will you? I don't want him mucking up the place."

Stan gave a curt nod, feet picking up a rapid pace and coming to kneel beside Kyle's shaking form as Cartman turned away to talk with the men still stretching from their four days in confinement. "Hey," he whispered, arms strong from a lifetime of labor sliding under Kyle's shoulder. "Come on," he urged.

An involuntary whimper left Kyle at being moved, cringing as he expected another assault before creaking open his heartbroken gaze to kind eyes of blueberry peels and the ocean that kissed the distant horizon.

"Come on, or he'll hit you again," he warned worriedly, scanning over the damage done and heaving a somber sigh. Far too many of his fellow servants had been brought in in less-than-optimal condition, but he hadn't seen one quite _this_ bad. Not nearly so bloodied and never _bound_ as the scared man in his grasp was.

Kyle gulped, wanting more than anything to just run, but he was exhausted, his legs still shaking from lack of use, his throat begging for water and his stomach twisted in starved pangs. Any attempt of even more than a limping traipse would have him passing out before he could so much as leave the property. He groaned as his legs shifted, trying to assist as Stan maneuvered him to his front so he could kneel and help boost himself back up.

Stan grimaced, keeping a hold around Kyle's chest and back as they gradually got him back onto his feet, Kyle's knees threatening to buckle before Stan caught him again. "I gotcha," he promised, helping the gimping man push his way towards the estate.

The sight repulsed Kyle, the ornate decorum of the door alone spoke loudly enough that he'd been taken by a man of pure greed. A man who flaunted every ounce of his riches and was _appalled_ when anything was denied to him. He glanced back past his shoulder and Stan's arm, glaring at the clear sight of money exchanging hands and thanks being given to the men who had upended his entire life.

' _I'll kill him,'_ Kyle swore to himself. _'I'm going the fuck home; this fat bastard can't keep me once I can goddamn run again.'_

"Step here," Stan's voice came through, guiding Kyle up onto the single stone step into the house. "Bebe," he directed to another worker, "go get some rags ready in the kitchen."

She nodded, shooting Kyle an understanding look before turning on her heel and scurrying down the corridor.

Kyle and Stan kept slowly making their way down the hall, Kyle's shaking increasing at the monumental weight of dread that circled over him. Was this better than being passed off as a slave? Was it _different_ in any way? Would his master _know_ who took him but be unable to do anything about it? He sniffled, teeth digging back into his makeshift gag. He didn't know how it'd come to this, or more _why_. A quick glance at his surroundings, seeing the detailed trim along the floorboards and the immaculate state of every inch and the _plethora_ of servants he'd already seen told him enough: Eric Cartman could goddamn afford _any_ servant available for sale.

So why _him_?

"Almost there," Stan said kindly, Kyle looking up at him with apprehension.

He seemed nice enough, but God only knew if that would actually mean anything in the long run. He could be Cartman's _favorite_ , maybe he'd turn on a dime and beat him all the same. Another stumble had Stan scurrying to catch him, Kyle hissing as his arm pressed into his bruised chest. "Shit, sorry, sorry," Stan mumbled, getting him up and steady again. "We'll get you untied when _he_ can't see, I'm sorry," he repeated.

Kyle looked at him before back over his shoulder to see Cartman still in view down the straight shot of the hallway. The concern in Stan's voice spoke to a terror he recalled as a child, when he found himself wandering the streets in a daze in the weeks after his family had passed, when he received his first beating from the man who'd taken him and forced him into his first servant job. Stan's worry spoke the truth loud enough: He was in the hands of a man with little feeling, a man who took their classification as _property_ too fucking far.

He found himself being led into a large kitchen, Kyle's eyes widening in awe at the scope and the carved counters that lined the room. "Over here," Stan urged, pulling him towards a prepared and cooling basin of steaming water Bebe had prepped. He moved Kyle towards the counter and "All right, up here," he urged, gripping around his waist and helping him hop up to sit atop the surface like a child. Had Kyle the energy to do so, he'd feel humiliated at being so easily led about.

"What even happened?" Bebe asked as she bustled her way back over with an armful of rags.

"I don't know," Stan answered, focusing his efforts on untying Kyle's gag and trying to not rip out the hairs caught in the knot.

Bebe looked at Kyle with large hazel eyes brimming with sympathy, "Poor thing," she cooed, squeezing next to Stan and beginning to work on the ropes over his wrists.

Kyle stared past them, back out the door into the hall. _'How do I get out of here?'_ he thought. He had no _idea_ where he was, but he knew he was a damn long way away from home. He just didn't know what direction home even _was_. He whined as the gag was undone and Stan pulled it from between his teeth, his jaw clattering from the newfound ability to close, unable to do so from the strain of being stretched for so many days.

"There ya go," Stan said softly, wincing at the red marks on the corner of Kyle's lips, rubbed raw from the taut cloth digging in so determinedly. He reached over and snagged a rag, dipping it into the basin and wringing out the excess. "What's your name?" he encouraged, trying to get Kyle's shellshocked eyes back and focused as he pressed the rag against the wound on the left side of his lips.

Kyle looked down with the introduction of heat to his skin, finding two attentive sets of eyes watching him and gulping. "I'm sorry?" he rasped.

"What's your name?" Stan repeated, undeterred by his wandering attention. He doubted he'd be much better in such condition.

"Um… Kyle."

"Well we're gonna get you cleaned up, Kyle," Bebe promised, returning her focus to the stubborn knotting of his arms. "Do you know what happened?"

Kyle shook his head, wincing at Stan trying to keep cleaning the dried blood from his face amid a barrage of apologies. "They… they took me from home."

"Home?" Stan repeated, waving for Bebe to switch places with him and let him work on the caught tangle of rope.

"Where I… worked…" he said slowly, head moving to take in more of the kitchen before Bebe's fingers silently prompted him to keep still so she could continue working.

Kyle gulped, jumbled mind gaining a hint of clarity being out of the heat and out of the vision of his captors. He knew Cartman, had met him and talked to him… He narrowed his eyes in thought. Which meant that there was _reason_ behind their encounter in his home…

God help him if he could piece together enough of a memory to actually recall, however. Too many people going in and out of the estate and too many things happening over the last several months made for a monster of a muddle in an already frazzled mind.

He glanced down at a sudden loss of weight atop his arms, watching the bundle of rope slip off and coil lifelessly atop the stone floor. The feeling was foreign, wincing as he lifted his arms closer to his face between himself and Bebe's working rag to look at his torn and raw wrists.

"Oh, Sweetie," Bebe cooed, taking her attention from a scabbed scrape down his cheek down to the blood trickling its way down pale forearms.

Kyle gulped, lashes fluttering nervously as he looked between her and Stan. "Are… are you slaves?" he croaked.

She shook her head. "As shitty as our pay is, it's still a no. We're servants," she said softly, dipping her rag back into her bowl to bring back to his wrist.

Stan grimaced, "Unfortunately, I don't think that's your case," he muttered, giving him a small, sympathetic pat on the arm as he reached over his head into the cabinet to grab a metal cup and take it to the fresh basin on the other side of the room.

"Stan! We don't know that!" Bebe hissed as Kyle's face fell further into dismay.

He frowned, bringing the filled cup back over and moving it up to Kyle's lips to help him take a sip, mouth twisting with pity at Kyle greedily downing the water in loud, desperate gulps. "Yeah, because people who get kidnapped and brought in tied up get to be _servants_ ," he rolled his eyes. He looked back down at Kyle who found the strength to grab the cup himself and tilt his head back further.

Kyle couldn't allow himself to sneak in a breath, too preoccupied trying to rehydrate and get his body temperature back down to tolerable levels. Each guzzle of chilled water hurt, his throat strained and throbbing with pain with each contraction. But he didn't care, so beyond thankful for this reprieve after days of horror that he took it in stride. He could feel Bebe and Stan watching him, the rag still working its way along his arm. But he couldn't be bothered to acknowledge their pity, he needed this moment. A moment to recover, a moment to _plan_.

"So why did he take you?" Stan asked quietly, eyeing over the splotches of purple and brown and shaking his head.

Kyle's momentary amnesty from his misery fled at once, his shoulders sagging as he finally brought the cup down from his lips, tonguing over them and realizing with a start how out of breath he was. His lungs ached as he heaved with gasps, using his cleaned wrist to wipe over the run-off on his lips. It was a fair question, but one he was utterly clueless how to answer. "I… I don't know," he said softly. "He's never… _done this_ before?"

Bebe looked up in thought before shaking her head. "No, he just pays a lot and gets who he wants."

He cringed down shyly, "My master wouldn't sell me."

"Ah, there it is," Stan scoffed, nose scrunching. "Someone told him no."

Bebe sighed, nodding in exhausted agreement and patting Kyle's upper arm. "Listen, just keep your head down and do what he says."

Kyle's brow began to furrow, the cup dangling loosely from his fingers atop his throbbing legs, fear and fatigue overridden by a building fury. "I'm _not_ his," he bit.

Stan winced, "Kyle, _trust us_ ," he said. "You don't listen to him, you get beaten to death. You would _not_ be the first."

Kyle looked down, glowering. Maybe that'd be better from the way the two of them were describing things. And, as Stan said, chances were _payment_ was off the table for him. The one slave in a mess of hired help; the lowest of the low.

Weighing his options was cut short with a snarky laugh from the doorway, looking up to see Cartman and one of the men who grabbed him smirking at him. He gulped, unconsciously backing up on the counter to further the distance.

"Well," Cartman cooed, hands folding behind his back, "I _do hope_ Stan and Bebe have told you how _fortunate_ you are to be here." He waved his hand towards them, both uneasily stepping aside away from Kyle.

He scowled, fingers clenching and his cup slipping out of his grasp, barely caught from clattering on the floor by Stan. " _Why_ am I here?!" he demanded.

A thick brow cocked, "May want to learn to control that _tone_ of yours around your master."

Kyle's teeth grit, bloodshot eyes aflame. "You're _not_ my master," he hissed. He could feel Stan and Bebe watching him in horror but paid them no mind.

Cartman chuckled lowly, stepping out of the way of his towering henchman who made a beeline for Kyle.

His heart lurched, trying to scramble out of the way, the fabric of his tunic snagging along the rough wood of the countertop. He screeched through his teeth as a large arm wrapped around his waist, coughing as he was hefted backwards over a broad shoulder like a wheat sack. "LET ME GO!" he yelled, frantically scratching and hitting the man's back.

"Let's show him his room, Trent," Cartman smiled scathingly, shooting Bebe and Stan's concern a sharp glare that made them back up further against the counter.

They watched helplessly as the three of them left the room, Kyle's screaming echoing through the halls of the estate.

"God, what is he gonna _do_ with him?" Bebe whispered as they were out of earshot.

Stan shook his head, looking down at the bloodstained rags and ropes along the counter and floor, stomach twisting. "I… I don't know," he murmured, cringing at the clear sound of a blunt hit and the ensuing yelp. "Hopefully he just… loses interest and leaves him alone."

Kyle's head was spinning from Cartman's heavy fist smashing against the base of his skull, all but limp in Trent's hold as Cartman casually took his place back at the front of the pack. He whimpered as poor spatial reasoning slammed him into the stone wall as they turned another corridor. Blurring eyes creaked back open, jaw tremoring as Trent grunted and shifted him atop his shoulder and they began ascending a stone staircase.

' _This is it_ ,' he thought, shaking. _'My master told him no, so he's gonna kill me. Kill me and send my dismembered body back to him. This is just a fucking petty lesson from a fat, petty man.'_ His eyes scrunched shut again, unable to halt his petrified trembling.

Okay, he was wrong, being beaten to death _wasn't_ the better of his options, he wasn't _nearly_ close enough to the edge of his limits for that yet. He couldn't fucking escape if he was dead, he couldn't get back home.

It would be nothing but a _loss._

"We prepared this room special just for you, Kahl," Cartman purred. "You should feel _honored_ , you're the only one with their own space."

Kyle was beyond confused, trying again to beat Trent's back and stopped with a constricting squeeze around his waist. "What are you going to do to me?" he whispered, voice cracking as he reopened his eyes, gulping uneasily at the exaggeratedly long staircase sloping beneath him.

"Make sure you're meeting your _true_ potential," Cartman said, fishing a long, brass key from the pocket of his overcoat and sliding it into the lock of a splintered wooden door. With the click of the tumbler, he threw open the door, smirking as he stepped inside and to the right for Trent to bring Kyle through the threshold.

Kyle yelped as he was dropped from Trent's grasp onto an unforgiving stone floor, immediately curling into himself with an agonized whine. The pain subsided for a brief moment of panic as something cold and heavy snapped down around his left ankle. He clumsily scrambled up, looking to see a leg shackle locked around him and gaze following the long, thick chain to find himself attached to an eyelet hook embedded in the masonry.

A large piece of darkened oak caught his peripheral, looking to his left and blinking in bewilderment at an ornate spinning wheel set up near the wall with a small stool beside it.

"So, you're all set up," Cartman said, Kyle slowly turning to look at both him and Trent near the door out of his fettered reach. The malicious grin on Cartman's face gave him no answers to his utter confusion, and he gulped.

"You… want me to make _clothes_? You _kidnapped me_ to make your fucking _clothes?!_ "

Cartman rolled his eyes. "No, I want you to use _that_ ," he pointed to a large basket beside the wheel, Kyle glancing over and sitting up to glance over the lip of the container. His eyes narrowed at a pile of straw settled in place.

"I…" he blinked, head pounding. "I don't understand what you _want_."

Cartman huffed, meandering his way to the basket and looking at the limp straw before looking at Kyle. "You can't lie to me. Your _old_ master _told me_ what you can do."

"What are you talking about?!" he insisted, wondering if he was losing his damn mind with as many circles as they were running.

He grinned, "Your talent. _Spinning straw into gold_."

The familiar saying brought a horrified pang to his heart, both reopening floodgates of mourning and bringing forth a tide of disbelief at the sheer stupidity of the man before him. "I-I… he… that wasn't _literal_!" he finally spat. "I can't-"

"He told me _that's_ why he wouldn't sell you," Cartman raised his brows. "So, tell me, Kahl: If that's _not_ the reason, why _wouldn't_ a man barely scraping by sell you for the _oh-so-high_ price I offered?"

Kyle's mouth slowly closed, racked with fear. This was bad, this was _very_ bad. He'd never believe that he was just a favorite worker, that he just made his master's favorite foods or cleaned the study the best of the servants. And he was, by all definitions, _property._ Every master had their favorite servant, but they were still there to be exchanged as money was needed.

But he _couldn't_ give the real reason, it ran _far_ too much risk for both of them.

Meekly, he uttered, "you can't possibly believe it's true."

"Well, if it's not, that's _very_ bad news for _you_ ," he warned, reaching into the bucket and taking out a fistful of straw. He took long steps towards the tethered man curled up against the stone wall and looking _so_ terrified, angry, and perplexed. He threw the handful at him, Kyle flinching back and looking at the stalks scattered over his legs and the floor in front of him. "I'll be _kind_ ," he drawled, waiting for Kyle to look up at him defeatedly, "You only have to make _that_ much gold tonight."

"And if I don't? Which I _can't_?" he asked through his teeth.

Cartman smirked, "Then I let Trent and his friends have a few days of _fun_ with you before they hold you down and beat your head open with a rock." His excitement spiked as Kyle's eyes widened in terror and his jaw dropped in the slightest, making his way back to the door. "But, succeed by the time I come back at dawn, and instead you get food. Seems in your best interest to make good on that old fool's words, hm?" He opened the door, Trent giving Kyle a sly grin before making his way out with Cartman behind him. " _Do_ have a good night, Kahl," he said. "Hate for your old master to get a letter telling him of the _waste_ that he caused," he feigned a pout before grinning again. "Remember: By dawn," he said, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving a silent, horrified Kyle alone in the sunlit tower, covered with straw and deafened by the echo of the clattering lock.


End file.
